The Cotton Queen (2 page)

B
ABS

I
REMEMBER
how I laid my finger upon her tiny open palm and she clutched her little fingers around it. My daughter, just fifteen minutes old, wrapped in a little pink blanket in my arms.

“She’s beautiful,” Tom said beside me. He was still dressed in fatigues, having hitchhiked from the air base in Biloxi as soon as I’d gone into labor. Twenty-two hours of contractions had allowed him to make it to the waiting room in time to meet up with his parents and field requests for pink-ribboned cigars.

“I know you wanted a boy,” I told him.

Tom laughed and shook his head. “I can’t imagine ever wanting anyone else but her,” he said.

That’s what I loved about Tom. One of the many things I loved about him. He always seemed to be so pleased with me and with everything I did. I swear, if I’d presented the guy with a five-limbed, hare-lipped gorilla, he’d have said she was the prettiest child he’d ever seen.

But it was no stretch for him that day. She was perfect.

“I don’t think Thomas Henry Hoffman, Jr., will work for her name, though.”

Tom laughed ruefully.

“Do you still want to name her after your mother?” he asked me.

I looked up at him, serious but open to discussion. “If it’s all right with you.”

“I didn’t know your mother,” he said. “But I know you and how much you loved her. It will be a fine name for the baby to live up to.”

“You don’t think it’ll make your mama jealous?”

He shrugged. “This is her ninth grandchild,” he said. “I don’t think it’s all that big a deal for her.”

“Maybe we could use her name for the middle.”

“Alana Helen Hoffman.” Tom voiced the name thoughtfully. “I like it,” he said. “But it’s too big for this little bit.”

I smiled down at my baby once again.

“Oh, we’ll shorten it till she’s big enough to manage such a mouthful,” I told him. “We’ll call her Ally or Laney.”

“Laney,” Tom said. “I like that.”

And so it was that seven-pound, two-ounce Laney Hoffman entered into life in McKinney, Texas, in the summer of 1958. It wasn’t a perfect summer. Tom was in the Air Force. He’d joined up hoping to get into mechanics training. He thought that would offer him big opportunities with a big private company like Pan Am or TWA. That was our plan.

Unfortunately much of it involved me living in the small apartment above my uncle Warren’s Pennsylvania Street Coin-Op Laundromat. He let me live there free just for opening the door at 6:00 a.m. and closing at midnight. Between time, I had to keep the floor clean, the change machine full and run interference on washer backups, overloads and plumbing calamities, all of which were common.

But I didn’t mind, especially that summer when the courts mulled over public school integration, and Elvis spent his days in the Army. I took my Laney in her little carry basket to work with me and I spent every spare moment singing to my little girl, playing with my little girl. It worked out well. Much of the time we were alone. And even when the laundry was full of people, the whirr of the washers and
fft-fft-fft
of the dryers enveloped us like a cloud of privacy. It was Laney and me against the world. We were a powerful pair that summer. Nobody could ever come between us.

I hadn’t known all that much about caring for babies. I had, of course, put in a million hours babysitting my cousins.

I was an orphan, though I guess I didn’t think of myself that way at the time. Orphans lived in big brick institutions waiting for someone to adopt them. I’d not spent one night in such a place. I’d lived with Uncle Warren and Aunt Maxine.

I don’t remember much about my father. He was a soldier in the Second World War and died in Holland in a place called Arnhem. That’s all I know about him. I’m sure he must have had parents, siblings, someone. But I never met any of them. My family had been my mother and me. When she died I was fourteen, and I went to live with her brother, Warren Barstow.

He and Aunt Maxine were nice to me, but they had plenty of children already. Warren Jr., whom we called Renny, was five. Pete was four. And the twins, Janey and Joley were toddlers. I was immediately put to work.

I was pretty certain that if there had been anyone else available, my aunt and uncle would never have taken me in. But there was no one. So I was determined to never make them sorry for the decision to keep me. I was Aunt Maxine’s right hand in the house. I was in charge of the children whenever she needed me. And I earned my own clothing and spending money working for Uncle Warren wherever he required help. He owned a half-dozen little struggling businesses in McKinney and, sooner or later, I ended up working at all of them. I did my time polishing at his Shoe Repair Shop. I packed clothes in plastic at the Spotless Dry Cleaners. And I served up ice cream at Dairy Hut.

Of course, I also kept up my grades, joined 4-H, attended pep rallies and ball games. I wore saddle oxfords and bobby sox during the week and white gloves and a pillbox hat on Sunday. I tried to do and be everything that I thought was expected of a perfect teenager.

I think they were pleased with me. I think they were proud of me. And they tried to encourage me. If I got straight As, the whole family would go downtown on Friday night for dinner at Dutton’s Café and a movie at the Ritz. When I won the blue ribbon at the County Fair for my begonias, they fenced off a huge plot in the backyard for my personal flower garden.

My senior year, I was first runner-up for Cotton Queen. I was disappointed that I didn’t win, of course. LaVeida Raymond was chosen over me. It wasn’t because she was prettier, but because her family was more important. I was philosophical about it. At least I was a member of the Queen’s Court for the annual Cotton Days Parade. And if, by chance LaVeida had come down with some terrible disease, I’d have been able to step into her place. But she stayed completely healthy and I maintained my place as runner-up.

Aunt Maxine sewed me a beautiful formal in pink chiffon. Uncle Warren went all the way to Denton to borrow a convertible from a dealership for my ride in the downtown parade. It was, up to that moment, the most exciting experience of my life. It was a rare occasion when I was the center of attention. My mother’s funeral was the only other time I could recall and that scrutiny had been very unwelcome. But riding down the streets of McKinney, waving at the crowds gathered on the sidewalk, was a moment of triumph, a moment of self-confidence that crystalized for me the direction of my life.

I was not the only one thinking about my future. A few weeks after the parade, Uncle Warren gave me his advice.

“A woman’s only chance in life is to marry well,” he told me one day as we worked together in the shoe shop. “Smart or dumb, pretty or plain, it’s the man she marries that makes the difference.”

He fitted the heavy work boot he was mending onto the shoe form of the straight stitcher.

“If a girl was really looking out for her future,” he pointed out, “she’d look no further than Acee Clifton.”

He bent over the sewing machine for a moment or two, allowing me to take in that thought and consider it. Uncle Warren had lost his left leg in the war, the artificial one that the Army had given him as a replacement didn’t bend and, as he worked, it stuck out from the side of his bench at a curious angle.

“Acee Clifton?” I repeated the name as a question.

Acee was in my class, but he was not the kind of fellow that really caught a girl’s eye. For one thing he was short. Not shorter than myself, I suppose, but he looked short and he was pudgy. He always seemed to have his nose in a book. In a high school where football and basketball were studied far more intensely than science or math, Acee was the least athletic guy in my class. Somehow I couldn’t see him as future husband material.

The sewing machine stopped. Uncle Warren looked over at me, his expression sober and serious.

“I wouldn’t have you aiming too high,” Uncle Warren said. “I don’t think there’s any sense in a girl trying to get above her raising. But Acee’s got money, family connections and a good mind. He’s going to be someone someday. If those silly girls down at the high school had any sense at all, they’d be tearing down his mother’s door to get a date with him.”

As far as I knew, Acee hadn’t had many dates.

I thought about what Uncle Warren said. And I spent more time just observing Acee, talking to him, trying to get to know him. But I also wanted a second opinion. So I went to Aunt Maxine.

She was ironing on the back porch. She claimed to enjoy the task, saying that she found it relaxing. Of course, she was still hot and sweating from the effort, even though it was already a breezy, crisp fall afternoon.

I told her what Uncle Warren had said.

Aunt Maxine shrugged. “He’s trying to be practical,” she said. “Women will have their romantic dreams, we all do. But the truth is, the man you marry pretty much determines your station in life.”

She set the iron up on its end and took a deep breath of hesitation before continuing.

“Your uncle Warren is thinking you are like your mother,” she said, biting her lip as if uncertain about revealing what she intended to say. “She was a truly sweet person, but she should have married again. There’s no doubt that she loved your daddy, but that doesn’t always come along in life. It certainly doesn’t come along often. She’d have been far better off finding herself a good man who knew how to make a living, than pining away as a young widow and working herself to an early death. I’m sure Uncle Warren just doesn’t want you to make the same mistake.”

I nodded, thoughtfully.

“So I shouldn’t marry for love?”

“No, no, I didn’t mean that at all,” Aunt Maxine said. “I think the only way to marry
is
to marry for love. Just try to fall in love with somebody...somebody like Acee Clifton.”

Truly I tried to follow her advice. I was kind and polite when I saw Acee at school. I even made a point of choosing him as my partner in science lab. But I was a girl. Girls couldn’t take the lead in that sort of thing. And I was never much of a flirt.

In the end, it didn’t matter. I went on a Christmas hayride with Tom Hoffman. He was a farm boy who sat two rows behind me in World History. He played on the baseball team. But he wasn’t one of the top athletes in the high school. He was just a sort of regular guy. He was tall, almost six feet and had blond hair that was too curly to be attractive. He kept it cut short and slicked down with Brylcreem. He had a great smile, though I can’t say for sure what was so great about it. His teeth weren’t any whiter than anyone else’s and he had a gap between the front two wide enough to whistle through. I hadn’t really thought about dating him, but when he asked me, well, I was pleased to go.

It was a cold, frosty night. I was dressed in a sweater and rolled up dungarees. Aunt Maxine didn’t really approve of young ladies wearing slacks, but on a hayride, you couldn’t really wear anything else.

On the way out into the country it was all carol singing and group laughter. I could have been alone or with anyone. But it was Tom who sat quietly beside me, enjoying the banter and occasionally offering a word or two of his own shy, clever wit.

We stopped for hot chocolate at the Manigault’s farm. Tom put his hands around my waist to help me down. When we went inside, the other boys held the hands of their dates. Tom escorted me with four fingers at the small of my back. It made me feel so feminine and at the same time so fragile.

All of us teenagers thought ourselves quite grown-up and sophisticated. But we played silly parlor games and giggled and ate gingerbread like kids.

A brightly decorated sprig of mistletoe hung down from the door frame into the dining room. Several couples made a game of “accidentally” getting caught under it. Those trysts involved a lot of laughter.

Tom made no attempt to steer me in that direction. I was both pleased and, I admit, a little disappointed. Aunt Maxine, as well as my girlfriends, had always made it clear that it was “fast” to kiss a boy on the first date. That should really be avoided. Still, I sort of wished that he would, at least, try. When Mr. Garmon, the Sunday School Superintendent and our driver, came in to announce that it was time to load up for the trip back to town, kids began hurriedly lining up in the hallway for a last chance at the risqué game. Tom led me outside. We were the first people back to the wagon.

I sat there, trying to smile but feeling a little let down.

Tom must have read my thoughts.

“I’m not much for mistletoe,” he said.

I nodded. “It’s silly and childish,” I told him, primly. “And we hardly know each other.”

“I just...” He hesitated. “I just want the first time I kiss you to be because you want to kiss me, not us showing off for our friends.”

“I do want to kiss you,” I blurted before I thought.

Tom smiled. He leaned toward me, his hand on my jaw and our lips met. It was somehow perfect. His mouth was not too hard or too soft. He tasted like ginger and chocolate. I wasn’t afraid. I was excited.

Other people began arriving and we pulled apart. But not far. We bundled up together under one blanket. His arm around me, holding me close. It felt wonderful.

On the ride home several couples were openly necking. We didn’t do that, though we did steal a few more kisses.

“I’ve liked you for a long time,” Tom admitted to me. “When you were in Queen’s Court in that pink dress. I thought, ‘she’s the prettiest one of those girls.’”

“So you think I’m pretty?”

“I know you are,” he answered. “But you’re smart and sweet, too. That’s the kind of girl I’d want for a girlfriend, if I was thinking to going steady or something.”

“Are you thinking to going steady?”

“I might.”

He grinned at me then. Even in the moonlight I could see that gash of dimple in his right cheek. He had dimples on both sides, but his smile was slightly crooked and the right side showed up more distinctly.

“I don’t think my uncle Warren likes the idea of going steady,” I told him.

“Then maybe he shouldn’t do it,” Tom said.